But the Jane I saw last night is different. The woman who shot that man looks like Jane, and she sounds like Jane. But while Jane was always reckless—goodness knows that most of our fights at Miss Preston’s were over her penchant to run into things without thought—this version of Jane is something else entirely. She had not flinched when she pulled her gun on Carolina, and seemed ready to kill him all because he was being rather irksome.
Something happened to her in the last year and a half, and it has nothing to do with the bite of the undead.
Still, Jane has always gone cold when she is hurting, and so rather than consider her to be this person indefinitely I resolve to discover the root cause of her hardness. And then I shall decide what to do next.
Another walk around the perimeter and I find Juliet and Louisa next to the fire, a fresh pot of coffee brewing. Louisa takes one look at me and grabs a tin cup, fills it, and hands it to me.
“Heard the gunshot last night. Carolina said there’s a bounty hunter you know that might be pitching herself to us.” She sips her own coffee and looks at me over the brim of the cup. “You trust this woman?”
“Well, about that . . .” I am unsure how to approach the matter. I want Jane to come with us. I need to know what happened to her—how she survived, what brought her to California if not her mother. But I am also afraid. I do not know much about the life of a bounty hunter, but everyone knows that they make a living dealing death. Having her in our midst might jeopardize the wagon train’s safety. And I am not sure that is a risk I want to take, with dozens of families just trying to find their way to a better life.
That said, we do need more security on the wagon train, especially as we draw closer to Sacramento and then move into the mountains. The climb will put us in a precarious position, with few options should we be set upon by the undead or highwaymen. So I am left with asking Jane to stay on.
Even though she might be just as dangerous as any other threat.
Juliet glances from me to Louisa and back to me as she waits for me to continue. When I do not, she says, “This girl, you know who she is, right?”
I nod, the direct question loosening my tongue. “We went to Miss Preston’s together. We, um, lost touch, so it was quite a surprise to see her last night, let me tell you.” I force a laugh. I am not about to tell them the last time I saw Jane, she had been bleeding out from a bite.
Louisa and Juliet share a look, and Juliet shakes her head. “That ain’t what I meant.” She reaches behind her and pulls out a paper. It is a few weeks old, from the same Negro press as the flyer for Haven, the Voice of the Negro. She flips through until she comes to what looks to be an installment in a serial. “True Stories of the Wilding West,” it’s called; this episode is entitled “The Devil’s Bride.”
I take the paper from Juliet and sink into a crouch as I read.
As I was traveling through Denver in the Colorado Territory I came across the terrible tale of the Turners. Like so many True Stories of the Wilding West, theirs is one that started with hope and the promise of a better life, and ended in tragedy.
Beatrice and Harold Turner had fled the hellish Lost State of Mississippi in the midst of the Years of Discord, fighting their way west, past hostile natives and a plague of restless dead. But when they settled in Colorado and began raising sheep and children, they figured their fighting days were over.
They were wrong.
I look up from the article and shake my head at Juliet. “What does any of this have to do with Jane?”
“Keep reading,” she says.
Impatient, I skim through the article, picking out the details: the Turners were kind and gentle people with a passel of kids; when they invited travelers to stay with them in the spirit of hospitality, they came to be murdered by a family of vicious brothers called the O’Reillys.
I skip over the sordid details and innuendo characteristic of this sort of pulp news serial, and finally come to a passage near the end of the piece.
Thus, a hardworking Negro family is murdered without any justice, the world indifferent to their fate. After all, we Children of Ham know the curse that has been laid upon us—not the curse of bondage, but rather the curse of neglect. This country does not see, nor seek to remedy, the suffering of the Negro, and we are taxed to bear the wrath of white inadequacy.
Yea, in most cases, our story would end with the deaths of the Turners. But, Dear Reader, you will be heartened to know it does not.
For out of the ashes of America rides an avenging angel, a Negro woman with but a single arm who serves justice by way of pistol and blade. The criminals and thieves of the Western states murmur her name in awestruck fear:
The Devil’s Bride.
For she is the one woman who can ensure the devil gets his due. And she was certain to make sure the O’Reillys paid in full.
I read every word of the rest of the article, marveling at the description of Jane riding the O’Reillys down on a white horse and lopping off each of their heads with a single chop, and then throwing those same heads at the feet of the neglectful sheriff outside Denver.
“I did not know Jane could ride a horse,” I murmur as I come to the end of the article.
“I can’t,” Jane says, startling all of us out of our stockings. She grins mischievously, and it is almost like having the old Jane back. Almost—the smile does not quite meet her eyes. “You should know better than to believe everything you read. Now, I suppose you must be Juliet and Louisa, the wagon train masters?”
Juliet nods; Louisa studies Jane with a shrewd look. “So you didn’t chop off those people’s heads?” she asks.
Jane’s grin fades, and the look she gives Louisa is flat and cold, like a rattlesnake turning its regard on a mouse. “Oh, I did. I suppose folks will say it’s because I was aiming to make a point, but the reality is it was just more expedient. There were a few of those O’Reilly brothers, and it takes a long time for me to reload.” Jane waves her shorter left arm to make the point. “I did shoot the last one, but only after he answered a few questions I had for him. I also gave them a bit of payback for the misery they visited upon the Turners.”
I think back to the knife wounds on the man from the night before and my blood goes cold.
I do not know this woman.
Jane gestures at the coffeepot near the fire, like she has not just confessed to torturing and murdering a group of men. “Might I grab a bit?”
Neither Louisa nor Juliet move or speak, they are that terrified of the bounty hunter before them. I hand Juliet back her paper and grab the pot of coffee. “The thing you will learn about Jane is that she is ever so expedient when it comes to ending a conflict.”
Jane glares at me as I pour the coffee. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Bright side.” She takes the coffee and takes a drink before continuing. “You try to make things seem like they’re better than they are.”
My mouth falls open in surprise at the casual cruelty, but Jane is no longer paying attention to me. Instead, she has crouched down between Juliet and Louisa.
“Now, to business. The good doctor who is amongst your charges has been kind enough to offer conveyance for the bounty I ran down in the night; in return, I’ll keep this wagon train and everyone in it safe from any man or creature that would see to cause them harm. I know you don’t know me from Adam. But I can tell you this: I was trained in combat at Miss Preston’s and my skills have only been sharpened in my long trek from Kansas to California. I’ve worked wagon train security before, and I am damn good at it.”
“That’s madness,” Louisa says. “No one can make that trip overland and live to tell about it.”
Jane smirks and takes a sip of her coffee. “Ah, that’s one of my primary qualifications. I’m very difficult to kill.”
“If that’s so, how’d you come to lose your arm?” Juliet asks.
“Shambler bit it,” Jane says.
The air whooshes out of my
lungs. I have no idea what game she is playing; I do not know the rules, and I am not even certain I understand the goal. Dread begins to wash over me. I have felt many things around Jane McKeene, but fear has never been one of them. It is not a sensation I like.
“Which is the other skill I bring to this outfit: I’m immune. It’s not only that I won’t turn if bitten; shamblers won’t even attack me. I’m guessing you can see how that would be useful.”
Louisa gives Juliet a look and turns back to Jane. “You cannot be serious.”
“As a heart attack, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve heard that Negroes have been known to be resistant to a shambler’s bite, but I had no idea—”
“I’ll stop you there,” Jane says, and her temper flares, just for a moment, though it just as quickly settles. “That old overseer’s tale about Negroes being immune is a bunch of hogwash. My immunity comes courtesy of a science experiment gone wrong. In fact, that is the reason I need to get to Sacramento. I have business there in connection with said scientist. So I will be heading that way regardless of your employment. This is your opportunity.”
Louisa looks to Juliet once more and shrugs. “Miss Preston’s,” she says. “I can’t say you don’t come with premium credentials.”
“Carolina told me you were able to draw down on your bounty in the dark and in less than a heartbeat,” Juliet says. “We could always use a decent shot.”
“Six rounds, pistol only,” Jane says, standing. “I’m no good with a rifle, and I like to look people in the eyes as I kill them, just so they get the courtesy of knowing who it was that did them in. I charge four dollars a day plus vittles for me and my boy, and I’m only going to stick with you until Sacramento. Like I said, I have my own business to attend to once we get to the city.”
“And what is that?” I ask, my temper at her indifference getting the better of me. “What is this business you have in Sacramento?”
She finally looks at me, and I would swear that I feel an icy wind blow through the camp. “I’m fixing to kill Gideon Carr,” she says, and I half believe she actually might have gone and gotten hitched to Satan himself. “Good seeing you again, Katherine.”
As she walks away, Juliet and Louisa shake their heads.
“Damn,” Juliet says, voice low.
“I know,” Louisa answers, fanning her flushed face. “I’ve half a mind to court her.”
The two women share a laugh, but I’m too busy watching Jane walk away and thinking how she has not called me Kate once since we have reunited.
I cannot help but wonder if there is anything of my old friend left.
How many men has the Devil’s Bride killed? One sheriff I spoke to in Carson City said he knew of at least ten men. “She’s quick and she’s efficient, even if she’s only got the one arm. Anyone fool enough to find themselves on a wanted poster should pray they meet the devil instead of his erstwhile bride.”
—Western Tales, Volume 23
—JANE—
Chapter 35
In Which I Respond to an Inquiry
Tomás is less than thrilled to discover that we’ll be traveling with the wagon train to Sacramento. “Miss Jane, everyone speaks English here! There’s nothing for me to translate.”
“That’s all right,” I say.
“But, how am I supposed to earn my keep if I don’t have a job?” he whispers, and the look of naked fear on his face makes my heart twist. I stomp the emotion flat.
“I still need a helper, and you can be my assistant, got it?”
“Do I get a gun?”
I swallow my laugh and shake my head. “No, but you get Salty. You know this pup was trained to sniff out the dead, right? So you and Salty are going to work like an early-warning alarm. It’s a dangerous job. Think you’re up to it?”
He nods, his heartbroken expression melting away into one of excitement. “We’ll be the best casimuertos lookouts, ever.” He yells something to Salty in Spanish and takes off for the front of the wagon train, the dog running after with happy barks.
Fortunately, with the dead so few and far between out here, I ain’t got to worry about the poor boy getting in over his head with some shamblers. Besides, we ain’t going to have much more time together one way or another. Sacramento is going to be the end of the line for me and Tomás. It ain’t like I can take the boy with me to kill Gideon Carr. I’m sure they got orphanages in a city like that.
I recheck my weapons before doing a quick head count as the train gets ready to move. Nigh about 150 people, and only twelve wagons carrying them. The group Callie and I traveled with from Carson City to Los Angeles wasn’t much larger than this, but it had four times as many hired guns as Louisa and Juliet have assembled here. I know people believe California is safer because the dead ain’t as much of a threat, but the truth is it’s easy enough to die from an ambush by living folk, not just the restless dead, and there ain’t enough people carrying guns to protect this group if we’re set upon. Though, now that I think about it, that doesn’t surprise me. Even here in the grand and glorious west it’s surprisingly hard for a Negro to come by a talking iron. Most places have laws against Negroes bearing arms, and it’s hard to find a gunsmith willing to sell to colored folks in places that don’t. The Californios might be a little less picky about where their money comes from, but most of them ain’t going out of their way to help a Negro. California is just as mean a place as the rest of this thrice-cursed land.
Louisa, who I now know to be the wagon train master, calls the march and we head out. She told me that it would be four more days’ walk to Sacramento—a slow pace, on account of the fact that we’ve got a whole bunch of children and older folk with us, most of whom have to walk. In other wagon trains the young and old could ride in the wagons with the household goods; in this one space was at a premium.
We’ve gone less than a mile when Katherine sidles up to me. I ignore her at first, though truth be told I’m glad she’s sought me out. Her presence means she ain’t completely given up on me. It’s a nice sentiment.
Too bad I’ve nothing for her.
Katherine looks the same as she did the last time I saw her. She’s dressed smartly in a traveling suit in a shade of deep blue, the skirt just long enough to keep within the realm of modesty. Her boots have been polished to within an inch of their life, and her tool belt holds a number of throwing knives as well as her Mollies, silver and sharp. Her rifle is slung across her back, and even that looks shiny and new. If there were an advertisement for Miss Preston’s, Katherine would be the poster girl. Her hair is swept up under a bonnet, and she’s as pretty as she is deadly. There’s something reassuring about seeing her looking so hale and hearty, and for the first time since I’ve known her I don’t feel the pang of jealousy that I usually do. Instead, I’m just glad that some good things in this world manage to survive and endure.
The last thing I want to do is sully that with my sins of the past year. Maybe joining up with the wagon train wasn’t my best idea, after all. I don’t want Katherine to ever look at me again the way she did last night, as though I’d just burned her favorite dress. Callie’s abandonment is still too fresh, and I don’t think I can stomach disappointing anyone else I care about right now. This is why I was better off on my own. More people just means more complications.
“Jane, might we talk?” she asks, her voice gentle. As though I’m a skittish cat and not the woman who plugged a man right in front of her.
A man who wasn’t even my bounty.
“I’d rather not,” I say.
“And I would rather we did,” she says, crossing her arms and stomping along beside me. The other folks from the wagon train have given us a wide berth. “I have questions, and you cannot just ignore me. You know me better than that.”
I shake my head, because it’s true enough. The more you try to ignore Katherine, the more vexatious she becomes. But I don’t like the tremor in her voice, somewhere between sadness and fear.
&nb
sp; “There’s nothing I’m gonna say that you’ll like.”
“Jane, there is nothing you could say that would surprise me. Not after what we went through. Besides, you already admitted to surviving the bite of the dead. It is not as though things could get more unbelievable than that.”
“Fine, I reckon it’ll be an awkward few days if we don’t talk. And I get the feeling that saying no would just give you even more reason to harass me.”
“I am not harassing you! Last I saw you, I thought it was the end, Jane McKeene. I spent over a year reliving your death and feeling like it was somehow my fault. You saved me in Summerland, and I let you die in Nicodemus. At least, that is what I thought. You . . .” She stomps her foot. “You . . . cannot even die properly!”
I try to stifle a laugh and fail, because it’s such a Katherine expression, and it makes my heart feel light after the year I’ve had. But then I remember what awaits me in Sacramento, and the look on Callie’s face when she’d asked me to run away with her and I’d quietly refused, and my mirth fades away. “I suppose some catching up is in order,” I murmur.
“I supposed so as well,” says Sue, coming up on my left. She falls into step with Katherine and me, and there’s something right about Miss Preston’s best girls fighting together once more. It’s a strange thing to consider that even though Miss Preston was a monster, training girls only to send them to their death, she gave us all this. Camaraderie, something worth fighting for . . . I ain’t about to say that my time spent at that school was worth it, but after all I’ve seen I understand only too well that finding someone to watch your back is a hard thing indeed. It was good fortune that brought the three of us together in Baltimore and again in Kansas.
The least I can do is tell them a story to honor that memory.
“All right,” I say. “What do you want to know?”
“We want to know how you survived being bitten,” Sue says. “Stop being coy.”
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